Concrete Zoo, Chapter 4: The Stall

The paint on the bathroom door handle had worn off from forty years of usage. The metal was showing through. Turning it over, Ben shoved the door in, saw the empty room, and slowed, trying to catch his breath. He pushed the door shut. His legs were wobbly. His arms were weak. His stomach hurt, pinching and poking him. He hoped he wouldn’t crap his pants.

He had pot in his pocket. He had a stolen stereo in his bag. He had a madman in control of his locker. What was going on?

The urinal was vacant. He leaned over and double-checked that no one was in the two stalls. The room smelled of urine and stale cigarette smoke. The one fluorescent light bank blinked on and off. The floor was sticky, the concrete was stained by water, and who knew what else. Toilet paper was strewn everywhere: the stall doors, the sink, the mirror, the trash can, around the trash can, and so on.

Wanting to lock the bathroom door, Ben searched for a way. No go. Anyone could walk in at any time. He went straight for a stall.

The doors had profanity etched into them. Along with phone numbers and random names Ben didn’t know nor did he want to know. He pushed one of the doors in, checked the toilet—it was flushed—and shut the door behind him. He pushed the latch to lock the stall and slung his backpack on a hook on the back of the door.

His hands shook as he pulled the bag of pot from his pocket. Nausea swept over him. Nothing in the ten years of Christian private school had prepared him to be locked in a bathroom stall, holding a bag of ganja over a toilet.

He ripped the baggie open, spilling some on the ground. He quickly dumped the rest in the bowl and flushed it—maybe the speed at which it went down would quiet his nerves. Some of the marijuana stuck to the sides of the bowl, so he flushed again. It was gone for a second only.

Panicked, he watched helplessly as the toilet filled with water and green leaves. A small pile also lay on the floor near the stall wall and the urinal.

“No, no!” he groaned.

The water was threatening to overflow. Violently, he jiggled the toilet handle, and the water stopped rushing in. He sighed and waited. Seconds ticked off, and the plastic bag was still in his hand, the green dope leaves floating in the water. Then, the toilet water, millimeter by millimeter, drained down.

Ben leaned against the wall and wiped his face. He smelled a pungent odor in the plastic bag and rushed out, banging into the stall door first because it was locked. He got it unlocked and threw the stall door wide open. He lunged towards the trash can, driving the baggie into the recesses of the trash. He jumped at the sound of voices outside the door.

“Yeah! Well, up yours!” a male voice yelled on the other side of the door.

Ben locked himself in the stall again and sat for a moment.

The bathroom door opened and slammed shut. Chuck Taylor-clad feet shuffled over to the urinal. Ben held his breath and eyed the pile of green on the ground. Would it be noticed? He wondered.

The right foot of the guy at the urinal nudged the pile, and a laugh followed.

“Hey,” the guy said. “Got any more?”

Ben didn’t respond. The urinal flushed.

“I know you’re in there,” the guy said, standing before the stall. “I can see your shoes. Share, and we’ll have a great day.”

Opening the door, Ben found himself standing in front of Clem.

“You?” Clem said, eyes wide with wonder. “First day, frosh, getting stoned in the art building. Nice.”

All of Ben’s body flushed red. Tears welled up in his eyes. Clem stepped back.

“Hey,” he said, the smile gone. “It’s cool. Man, don’t cry. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Wasn’t mine,” Ben said, barely audible.

“Sure, no big deal.”

Clem tore a paper towel off the rack and wiped his hands.

“It was the guy that owns my locker—he forced me to take it,” Ben said.

“Owns your locker?”

“He took my lock and put his lock on the door,” Ben said. “I can’t get in it without him.”

“Is he a hairy a-hole?” Clem asked, squinting.

“Yes.”

“Jeez, you got screwed,” Clem said, balling up the paper towel and tossing it in the trash can. “Why in the world they’d put a frosh below that animal’s locker is lame with a capital O.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, he forces his product on everyone.” Clem jammed his hands in his pockets. “Stear clear of him.”

“But my books.”

“Builds muscle,” he said and slapped Ben on the shoulder.

“Why’s he allowed here?” Ben said, staying on his feet from the blow delivered.

“Everyone’s terrified of saying anything about his ‘dealings,'” Clem said with a shrug and air quotes. “So they let him go about his ‘business’,” he said with more air quotes.
“That’s dumb,” Ben said.

The hot water handle on the sink stuck when Ben turned it. He forced it, and water trickled out. Ben washed his hands and rubbed his face. He leaned forward and swallowed the desire to cry. Clem stood near the door and waited. The late bell sounded.

“Take your time,” Clem said, looking out the door. “The old clown ain’t here yet anyway.” He leaned towards Ben. “Don’t worry, things will get better. You’ll be okay.”

He opened the door and stepped out. “Just don’t let Sanchez catch you with his stereo.”

Ben slid the backpack off the back of the stall door, slung it over his shoulder, took a deep breath—then wished he hadn’t: he was just beginning to forget the stench of the room—and went out.

The art building hallway was narrow, and the classroom was to his left. He found ten other students waiting outside, some standing, some sitting, some leaning against the wall. Taking up a spot just outside the men’s bathroom, the overwhelming smell of pastels and paints from the art room swirled around Ben, and in a flash, he was back in fourth grade at Preparatory Life Christian Academy. The familiar dark green carpet and multi-colored bulletin boards with the season’s lettering and art comforted him.

In front of him, classmates stood single-file and inched towards a woman behind a folding table. It was his mother, six years younger, with dark red hair down to her shoulders, a giant smile on her face, and eyes gleaming with joy as she graciously handed each student paint packets, brushes, and paper.

He was at the back of the line, and with each child leaving the line, he drew closer and closer to his mother. She was the art teacher of the year, and having her there was not cool.

When he reached the table, she handed him pastels and art paper, winked at him, and nodded. She started to say something to him, but someone else’s voice blew the memory away.

“You okay?”

Ben looked up, and the girl from the first period smiled at him. She was just a touch shorter than Ben, and her head was tilted slightly upwards. He saw that she had light green eyes and perfect teeth. He noticed his face flushed again, his heart racing, and his palms sweaty.

“Yeah,” Ben said, glancing away to gather himself.

“You’re face is white,” the girl said.

“Oh,” Ben said, scooping up the single tear with his point finger.

“I’m Cassie,” she said, extending her hand.

“Ben.”

They shook, and his knees went wobbly. The touch of her skin was like silk, the warmth like a blanket on a winter night, the electricity that shot through his arm like sticking your finger into a light socket.

“Art 101, ey?” she said, nodding at the door.

“101,” Ben said.

“Drafting and art,” she noted, “you like to draw?”

How did she know I was in drafting? He asked himself.

“You asked where the shop building was. After 1st period.”

She’d read his mind.

“I forgot,” he said.

She smiled and chuckled for a moment.

“Crazy day,” she said.

“One of the most,” he said.

“She’s always late,” said the girl sitting on the floor next to Cassie.

“Who?” Ben asked.

“The art teacher,” the girl said, bugging her eyes and shaking her head, which was ten times bigger than her anorexic body. She wore red and white striped socks up to her knees, cut-off black shorts, and a KISS t-shirt with a big tongue sticking out. Her clunky red Doc Martens were off and sitting against the wall.

“Why?” Cassie asked.

“She likes her juice,” the girl said.

“Juice?” Ben muttered.

“Jeez, man, where you from? Spirits, fire water, alcohol?” the girl said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

“Oh,” Ben said back.

“She’s drunk,” the girl said, suddenly drawing on her forearm with a black Sharpie.

The action sent chills up Ben’s spine, so he stopped watching her.

Just then, WHAM! The door at the far of the hall burst open. In came a lumbering, off-center woman, wearing an orange and white dress three times bigger than her immense frame, starched blonde hair sticking straight up, green-rimmed eyeglasses stretching from the middle of her forehead downward, almost to her mouth.

“Greetings, creators and Cretans!” the clown of a woman bellowed. “Enter the famed art room if you dare!”

She was waving, smiling, bowing, and gliding towards Ben and Cassie while scoping keys from her purse, dangling her forearm. She ceremoniously unlocked the door and dove through it while everyone else slowly stood and entered.

“Did I mention she’s nuts too?” the girl with the socks said, rising, carrying her shoes and nothing else into the room.